


The Interview

by fennecfawkes



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Excessive Banter, Fluff, M/M, SHIELD Husbands, SHIELD Is the Worst Acronym Ever, Schmoop, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 10:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1775239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennecfawkes/pseuds/fennecfawkes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What was your dynamic like with your handler?”</p><p>“Sexy.” Clint keeps a straight face. Phil struggles to do the same. “He went from handler to friend to best friend to boyfriend to fiancé to husband over the course of two years.”</p><p>“And was that allowed within the parameters of SHIELD?”</p><p>“Not entirely, but he was very important. He had some pull.”</p><p>“And he used it.”</p><p>“He did.” Clint nods. “Very sexily, I might add.”</p><p>In which Clint interviews for a sniper job at a hot new agency. Not my characters, only vaguely AOS compliant, et cetera.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Interview

“Name?”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Clinton Francis Barton.”

“And how do you spell that?”

Clint scratches his nose with his middle finger. Phil laughs, which has been happening quite a lot, considering the situation. He’s sitting opposite Clint in the biggest office at the new base. It’s been a while since he’s looked at Clint from across a desk. It feels oddly like coming home, but he won’t say that out loud. Not right now.

“Alright, Clinton.”

“Please, call me Clint,” Clint says with a cheesy smile.

“Clint. Fine. Let’s talk about your work history, Clint.”

“As a young adult, I performed in a traveling circus, shooting arrows at flaming targets and apples off the heads of beautiful young ladies.”

“Impressive.” Phil begins doodling Clint on the pad of paper he’s holding.

“You know I can see that, right?”

“Stay in that position. I’ve got a good angle on your eyes. What happened after the circus?”

“A lot of mercenary gigs, some better than others. Then a guy in a suit found me in New Jersey, where I was posing as, I believe, a mobster’s piece on the side. He offered me a job that involved significantly less law-breaking, and I’d been looking for that for a little while, so I took him up on his offer.” Clint pauses. “I also thought he was cute. That may have or have not influenced my decision.”

“Noted,” says Phil. “What is it you were doing in your new position? And where was that position?”

“SHIELD. Strategic Homeland ... Intelligence ... oh, God, give me a second.”

“It’s not ‘Intelligence,’” Phil whispers loudly. “It’s ‘Intervention.’”

“Oh! Right! Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division.”

“That name tells me literally nothing about what you did.”

“True,” says Clint. “They should work on that.”

“I’ll take your observation into account,” Phil says. “So, you’re good with a bow. Did that play a part in your role at SHIELD?”

“Quite a significant part, sir,” says Clint. “I shot many bad guys. And bad women. And I did it with a bow when my handler let me.”

“What was your dynamic like with your handler?”

“Sexy.” Clint keeps a straight face. Phil struggles to do the same. “He went from handler to friend to best friend to boyfriend to fiancé to husband over the course of two years.”

“And was that allowed within the parameters of SHIELD?”

“Not entirely, but he was very important. He had some pull.”

“And he used it.”

“He did.” Clint nods. “Very sexily, I might add.”

“You’d mentioned that. And why’d you leave SHIELD? You seem to have greatly benefited from the organization, having found career satisfaction and a life partner. I can’t speak to his qualities—”

“They’re top-notch, sir.”

“Well, then, why leave?”

“It kinda dissolved,” says Clint. “So I need a new gig. And this sounded a lot like what I was doing already. So, do you want me?”

“In a general sense? Yeah, I guess I do.”

“And as an asset? I hear you’re looking for a sniper. That’s why I’m here.” He pauses. “That, and I was finally allowed to know you were alive, rather than pretending I didn’t. Did you like the messages, by the way?”

“I’ve never seen anyone write in Morse code before,” says Phil.

“You didn’t answer my question, sir.”

“Yes. I greatly appreciated your correspondence.”

“Even the dirty stuff?”

“Especially the dirty stuff.” Phil pauses. “Sometime, we’ll have to discuss how you came to determine that I was alive.”

“Not much to discuss,” says Clint. “I had Stark triangulate some such thing, and we got some protected security feed of some kind, and then I sent you the first note, and it just kind of went from there.”

“I was very curious.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of your thing, being curious. That and ties.”

“And mouthy snipers who darken my door looking for a job.”

“Flatterer.”

“Well, since my sniper turned out to be sort of evil, I suppose I can offer you a position,” says Phil. “The pay is nearly nonexistent, but Koenig—he’s the base ... manager, I suppose—Koenig’s a pretty good cook, and the quarters are comfortable. You will have to bunk with me for the time being, but it’s a queen-size bed.”

“Is it the one from our apartment?”

“I’m afraid we’ll need to make new memories on this one,” says Phil. “We’ll get you a lanyard by the end of the day. You might have to undergo a test of some sort.”

“I’m familiar with those,” Clint says. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t we supposed to be having dinner with my new colleagues?”

Phil nods, putting down the pad of paper. His doodle’s turned into a full-on portrait of Clint from the waist up. It looks somewhere between terrible and passable.

“I’m cute,” Clint observes.

Phil stands and steps around his desk, pulling Clint to his feet. “I agree.” He kisses Clint, soft and sweet, and he feels the corners of Clint’s mouth turn up.

“I should remind you that it wasn’t your fault I didn’t know,” says Clint. “I mean, I wish you’d told me, but—”

“Any communications I could’ve made got headed off by Fury.” Phil lets go of one of Clint’s hands to wave his dismissively, then laces their fingers together again. “I tried. And you succeeded. And now you’re here, and I have a sniper, and my husband, and that’s what really matters.”

“You’re getting your feelings all over me, Phil. Sorry, I meant ‘Director.’”

“You can say that in front of the others, if you want,” says Phil. “But when it’s just us...”

Clint nods and grins. “Noted. I’m going to kiss you again, alright?”

“It’s 6,” says Phil. “They’re going to notice our interview’s going long if we don’t get there soon.”

“Hey, Phil? Ask me if I care.”

“Do you care?”

“I don’t,” says Clint, and he leans into Phil, nipping at his neck, his lips eventually finding their way to Phil’s. And it’s like that for a good long while, just the two of them standing there, kissing like they haven’t since the night before, and like they hadn’t for far too long before that. Phil knows his team knows exactly what’s going on—it helps that he introduced Clint as his husband—and, like Clint, he doesn’t care. He’s fairly certain this is much more delicious than anything Koenig’s whipped up, and he’ll be good and sated by the time they make it to the mess hall.

Clint takes a break from worrying at Phil’s lower lip to say, “I missed your tongue.”

“Just my tongue?”

“All of you,” says Clint. “But it’s on my mind right now.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Phil murmurs before returning to the all-important task that is re-familiarizing himself with Clint’s most sensitive spots. “I’d almost forgotten about your ears.”

“The whole ‘crazy fucking sensitive’ thing?”

“Yeah, that.” Phil tugs at Clint’s earlobe with his teeth. Clint groans, and Phil mentally adds five more minutes onto their tardiness.

“We’re not having sex now,” says Phil. “Then we’ll never eat dinner.”

“I know,” Clint says. “Just ... hold me for a few minutes before we have to go act like adults in front of the others?”

“Of course,” says Phil, and that’s just what he does, skimming his hands along Clint’s lower back and waist, just as Clint’s always liked. Clint hums contentedly, and Phil echoes his sentiment.

“Love you,” Clint says. “So much.”

“Love you, too,” says Phil. “Certainly as much, if not more.”

When they eventually arrive in the mess hall, Simmons and Skye are crowded into each other’s space, hunched over, of all things, a jigsaw puzzle of painfully adorable ducklings. If Skye’s hand is lingering a little close to Jemma’s, Jemma doesn’t seem to notice—or mind. Triplett’s explaining the merits of pork sausage over turkey sausage to May, and, with a pang, Phil remembers that right now, this is all of them. Then Clint, somehow sensing what Phil’s feeling, squeezes his hand and pulls him toward the table. As soon as they’re seated next to each other, Koenig emerges, bearing salad and mashed potatoes.

“Sausage—pork sausage—is coming right up,” he says, hurrying back to the kitchen.

“So,” Clint says, turning to face Phil as Skye pushes the puzzle away and Jemma pouts. “What’s next, Director?”

Phil smiles and taps his thumb against Clint’s. “When was the last time you talked to Banner?”


End file.
